Jack of Spades (11 page)

18 The Repentant

Take care! You are in great danger.

For a night and a part of the next day Irina avoided me. In my writing room above the old stable I was unable to work. Sick in the gut, and sick at heart. The very thought of Jack of Spades filled me with dismay.

“I will have to stop. No more ‘Jack of Spades.’”

I waited, apprehensive. As one who has felt a tinge in his heart waits for a greater tinge, and cardiac catastrophe.

Waited for the jeering threatening voice.

And yet—there was nothing. Outside the opened windows a soughing of wind in the tall trees that surrounded the house, a beautiful sound that brought tears to my eyes.

“I will give back the books I’ve taken from that poor woman. I will apologize to Irina. I will never drink again.”

Early that morning before I was fully awake Irina had left for the Friends School. For the first time in our marriage one of us had left the house without saying good-bye to the other.

It was a small thing, I knew. It was a chasm.

I’d fallen into a stuporous sleep in the basement room the previous night. The empty bottle of Scotch at my feet.

When I came upstairs groggy and uncertain at nearly 9:00
A
.
M
. my wife was gone, the house was empty and in all the rooms a sharp white autumn sun shone through the windows, meaninglessly—a premonition of Mill Brook House empty of its inhabitants.

“Irina? Where are you . . .”

My head ached. Pulses in my eyes pounded with ominous intent. As if someone, some thing, were trying to speak to me.

That day, which was an interminable day, I could not write a coherent sentence. In my writing room that had been the setting of more than one admiring feature in local publications—(“airy”—“spacious”—“gorgeous rural views”—“private, secluded”—“a writer’s dream”)—I’d been unable to concentrate. How mechanical, the plot of
Criss-Cross
! And how hollow-sounding, the title of which I’d been so proud. Sentences careened through my brain like deranged beetles. Words became detached from their meanings. When I tried to read aloud passages that needed particular attention—which I have always done—it was the jeering voice of the wild-white-haired woman that rang in my ears.

Thie
f
! Plagiarist! Murderer!

“I am not a—murderer . . .”

In your heart, you are a murderer. You want your enemy dead.

“I don’t want anyone dead. I—I am terrified of hurting another person . . .”

You are terrified only of being exposed of your crimes, and punished. That is all.

“This is not true! In my heart, I am not that way at all.”

Ugly din of voices. C. W. Haider, Jack of Spades. In my confusion I could not tell them apart.

There was a marshy area on our property, in a low-lying field not far from Mill Brook, that smelled strongly of rot, manure. Very likely it was a cesspool into which animal waste had once drained from the barnyard. Irina and I had discovered the “marsh”—as we (euphemistically) called it—and had thought we might have the area filled in with topsoil. But we’d never gotten around to ordering the topsoil. Even in high boots you wouldn’t want to walk in the “marsh”—you would fear being sucked into the soft mucky earth. And the stench of rot, organic decay. And the clouds of gnats, flies, butterflies that hovered above the marsh, a terrifying teeming of life.

Nonetheless there were beautiful creatures in the marsh. Butterflies of many sizes and colors. Red-winged blackbirds, snowy egrets.

Copperhead snakes, snapping like miniature whips.

Jack of Spades was the soft sinking treacherous marsh. You could dump solid topsoil into it—but the topsoil would be sucked down. You could lay planks across the marsh—but the planks would be sucked down.

Best to avoid the marsh. The poisonous fumes were intoxicating, addictive.

“Irina? I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me . . . I hadn’t realized I’d been drinking so much. I hadn’t realized I’d been drinking
at all
.”

Taking Irina’s small-boned hands in my hands. Stroking her fingers that were stiff in my fingers, not quite resisting, yet not yielding.

It was so: I had no clear idea what had come over me the previous night. Why I’d been so suddenly furious with my dear wife whom I loved very much—whom I adore.

“Do you forgive me, Irina? I swear it won’t happen again.”

Irina’s eyes were downcast. Her manner was subdued, wary.

“It’s this strain I’ve been under, that I haven’t wanted to tell you about . . .”

This caused Irina to glance up at me, as I’d hoped it would.

“. . . I’ve been shielding from you since it’s both very petty and very destructive.”

“What is it?”

“Just something to do with my writing—my ‘career.’ The vicissitudes of Andrew J. Rush.”

“But ‘Andrew J. Rush’
is you
. Please tell me what has happened . . .”

I felt a pang of love for my wife of so many years. Dear Irina who’d fallen in love with “Andy Rush” who was so much her inferior, hadn’t she known?

These many years, I’d managed to deceive her.

My career,
not
hers
. Why hadn’t Irina Kacizk struggled more assertively, why had she subordinated herself to
me
?

Irina had been gone all that day—from approximately 8:00
A
.
M
. until 6:00
P
.
M
.—and hadn’t answered her cell phone despite my numerous calls. Of course, I had hurt her feelings. A woman too has pride, and must not allow herself to seem over-submissive in a marriage. Yet my dear Irina was so devoted to me, and her livelihood so bound up with
Andrew J. Rush,
she’d become unhesitatingly sympathetic.

“Darling, do you know the name ‘Haider’?”

“‘Hater’—what a strange name!”

“Not ‘Hater’—‘Haider.’ They’re a local family.”

Irina frowned, and thought a moment. “Well, yes—‘Haider’—that name is familiar. They’ve made contributions in Harbourton—there’s a park named for them, and a scholarship fund at the Friends School. I think there’s a student in the school right now in the upper form. But no one I know.”

In a sudden rush of words I confessed: an older woman named Haider, a resident of Harbourton, and a failed, would-be writer, had attempted to sue Andrew J. Rush early in the summer. But the suit had been dismissed.

Irina waited for me to continue. “And—?”

“And—that’s all. She’d initiated a lawsuit on some ridiculous claim of invasion of privacy, but the case was thrown out of court.”

Invasion of privacy
was more plausible than
theft, plagiarism,
as it was less painful.

“‘Invasion of privacy’—how absurd. How could she make such a claim?”

“It was a typical nuisance suit, my publisher’s lawyer told me. The sort of thing that happens often to successful high-profile writers usually, like Stephen King.”

“But you are ‘successful’ and ‘high-profile’ also, Andrew! I’m so sorry that this upset you, and you hadn’t even told me about it. I can understand why you’ve been distracted.”

“Even more outrageous, she tried to sue me for ‘stealing’—‘plagiarizing’—from
her
.”

“My God! What a joke.”

Irina’s warm brown eyes filled with tears of angry commiseration. She had many wifely questions to ask but I assured her that there was nothing more to be said—really. “The lawsuit was considered groundless, and the case was dismissed by Judge Carson.”

Now Irina took my hands in hers, to quell their tremor.

“But why are you so agitated, Andrew? If it has been dismissed?”

19 Tumbrel Place II

No one will know! You will be spotless as a lamb.

Another time, I drove to Tumbrel Place, Harbourton. Except this time, it was after midnight.

Dark as a tar pit, the old “historic” neighborhood near the courthouse.

And now, it was well into autumn, the first week of November, and the nights frankly cold. Very sensible of anyone who ventured out after midnight to wear gloves, leather jacket, a fedora pulled low over his forehead.

All of my clothes were dark-hued. And my Nike running shoes, black.

Irina had no idea where I was. No idea I’d gone out. I’d waited until my dear wife had gone to bed, and was soundly asleep well before midnight. And then I’d slipped away from the house unobserved.

Overhead, a faint red moon. Some rogue impulse inspired me to smile at the moon, and wink.

Only you, my witness.

And you will never tell.

My heart beat quickly, pleasurably!

Hours of the day each day trapped in my writing room, forced to work, or try to work, on the mystery novel formerly titled
Criss-Cross,
with damned little to show for it.

Nighttimes, writing as Jack of Spades, were much more productive.

But Andrew J. Rush was
me
. Damned if I would give up
me
.

Which is why I felt so—exhilarated! Outside in the night, invisible. In my dark disguise.

I’d known almost from the first what must be done. What reparations must be made to the wronged party.

I am not a common
thief
. I will admit, I was overcome by the rare books on C. W. Haider’s shelves that looked as if they hadn’t been opened in years; I’d given in to temptation, which was a mistake.

And so now, I was a repentant. Yet something of a coward too, for I’d hoped to return the purloined books to C. W. Haider weeks ago.

Since my first visit to 88 Tumbrel Place in September I’d been obsessively checking local media for news of C. W. Haider as well as tracking Stephen King online, to determine if (maybe) C. W. Haider had reacted in fury against Stephen King for the little prank I’d played on her in his name. Halfway I expected to see headlines—
Stephen King Threatened by New Jersey Stalker.
Better yet—
Stalker of Stephen King Arrested.

Or—
Beloved Bestselling Novelist Stephen King Murdered by Madwoman Stalker.

Or—
Madwoman Stalker Killed in Attempt on Life of Beloved Bestselling Novelist Stephen King.

But none of this had happened. With each week that passed it was less likely to happen.

I could only assume that Haider had been discharged from the psychiatric hospital in New Brunswick weeks ago, and was living again at Tumbrel Place. Of course, I had no idea if she’d recovered from her derangement—perhaps she was still seriously ill. Perhaps she was in a clinically depressed state and had no interest in avenging herself on her old nemesis Stephen King, or anyone.

She might have undergone electric shock treatment. She might be massively sedated. By now, she might have totally forgotten Andrew J. Rush.

In the
Harbourton Weekly
there’d been no news of a robbery at 88 Tumbrel Place. Each issue I read eagerly and with dread, sure that I would see an accusatory headline—
Rare Books Stolen from Tumbrel Place Residence
—
Police Investigating Rare Book Theft from Haider Residence—
but again, there’d been nothing.

Had Haider not noticed the gaping absences on her bookshelves? Had I so cunningly covered my tracks, there was not much to notice? It seemed implausible that a collector who owned such valuable books could be so negligent, but then C. W. Haider was an enigma to me. I had no right to imagine her as some sort of (reasonable, rational) extension of myself.

And so, it was my plan to return to the house by night, and to replace the missing books unobtrusively, carried in my duffel bag.
Frankenstein, The Lair of the White Worm, The Turn of the Screw,
Le Fanu’s
In a Glass Darkly
and one other, Wells’s
The Island of Dr. Moreau
.

And, not least, though I’d come to be particularly fond of it, the slender
Imp of the Perverse
.

C. W. Haider’s own novella
The Glowering
, which so curiously anticipated King’s
The Shining,
I’d decided to keep since there were spare copies of the novella in Haider’s bookshelf and she would certainly never miss one.

Indeed, a long-unpublished writer like C. W. Haider would be flattered to know that a long-established writer like Andrew J. Rush cared to take the time to read her vanity-press effort.

Fortunately I must have anticipated returning to the house back in September, and had unlocked two windows.

Not you, Andy. Don’t deceive yourself.

You would ask—why didn’t I simply just mail the purloined books back to their owner? Of course, I had thought of this. But to mail them to C. W. Haider via the U.S. Postal Service, or UPS or FedEx, even to leave them carefully wrapped on the front step, would be to call the excitable Haider’s attention to the fact that the books had been taken; and it was quite possible that, in ill health, distracted by a hundred chimeras, Haider had not noticed their absence. The infuriated woman would then question her caretaker Esdra Staples, and the poor man would be incriminated for having allowed a thief into the house; possibly, Esdra could provide Haider with a detailed description of the gentlemanly middle-aged book thief which Haider might give to Harbourton police.

Not that anyone would pay the slightest attention to C. W. Haider’s paranoia. Andrew J. Rush in particular had “immunity” from the woman’s imaginary charges. Haider was a local crank known to law enforcement and the judiciary: Grossman had secured an injunction against her, to prevent her harassing
me
.

This was an act of mercy, kindness. I did not want to think that it was a reckless act which I might regret.

For some time now, Jack of Spades had been silent. When I anticipated his jeering wit, often there was silence.

Had he abandoned me? Was that a good thing?

My drinking was limited to a glass or two of white wine at dinner. No longer was there whiskey in the house. Irina seemed less wary of me, lately. We were lovers again—or nearly. For our thirtieth wedding anniversary we were planning a long-deferred trip to Spain. I was planning to buy her a beautiful black pearl necklace. Our sons, from whom I’d been somewhat estranged, for no reason I could comprehend, were friendlier now, at least in their e-mails and text messages.

Take care! A misstep now could be fatal.

Of course, I didn’t park anywhere near the dignified old Edwardian house, which looked like a mausoleum by night. In fact, the entire neighborhood looked like a graveyard of large, ornate sepulchers.

There were a few scattered lights shimmering in the dark. But they were dim lights, that didn’t “light up” any significant space. I carried a flashlight with a powerful but narrow beam, which I took care to use sparingly.

Swiftly and silently I made my way from the wrought iron gate and across the darkened lawn. And along the side of the house, ducking evergreen boughs. My breath steamed faintly in the sharp cold air. The narrow little beam of light guided me faultlessly, like a laser.

And here was the unlocked window! With some effort, I managed to open it, just enough to allow me to crawl through. Luckily there were several large clay pots at the side of the house which I could stand on, to get sufficient leverage.

And now—I was inside the house! The laser-light was ideal to guide me past furniture draped in ghostly shrouds. Though I was somewhat short of breath I made my way unerringly to the rear of the house, to Haider’s writing room. The smells here were familiar, half-pleasurable. It seemed very recently that I’d been in this room, dazzled by what I’d found on the shelves.

I reasoned that C. W. Haider was sleeping in a remote room upstairs. I felt certain that the woman slept a heavy, drugged sleep. And she was alone in this house of course.

It had been my plan to return the books to their proper places on the shelves, and to depart. If nothing went wrong the intrusion wouldn’t require more than ten minutes.

But now that I was here, in this forbidden place, I could not resist seeking out, with the laser-light, another title on the shelf which I coveted—the volume of
Dracula
which I knew to be a first edition signed by Bram Stoker.

How badly I wanted this book! And yet . . .

Take it. Quick!

Don’t be a fool, you deserve this.

The volume of
Dracula
was in my hand, and in the duffel bag.

Next, I was captivated by an unprepossessing volume which another, less discerning eye would overlook—
The Dance of Death
by Ambrose Bierce. Excitedly, I opened the dingy volume to discover that it was a first edition—1877—inscribed and signed by Bierce himself.

My several Bierce books are second or third editions, not rare, and not signed.

“I must have this.”

(Ambrose Bierce was one of the writers I’d read with particular excitement and admiration when I was just starting to write.)

And so, there came to be another volume in the duffel bag, with the others I’d intended to bring back to Haider.

Somehow it was happening, without my having quite decided it, that I wasn’t returning the books to Haider’s shelves after all. And I was feeling quite jubilant!

Of course. This is why you are here. Take what you wish, there is no one to stop you.

As I directed the beam of light about the high-ceilinged room—horizontally along the bookshelves, then vertically; across the desk that held the formidable old Remington typewriter; across the wide width of the fieldstone fireplace—I saw, or thought I saw, a movement in the corner of my eye near the floor; but when I turned, the shadowy figure vanished.

I reasoned that it was nothing—“notional.” An effect of the flashlight beam causing shadows.

Next, I investigated Haider’s desk. Here was a true old antique of a desk—once, a beautiful piece of furniture, a gentleman’s desk; now rather battered and scarified. I saw that many of the keys in the typewriter were worn smooth, so that you could not discern the letters; I saw indentations in the keys worn by the typist’s sharp fingernails, and shuddered at the prospect; I saw that there were deep rings and stains on the mahogany surface, as if the writer had carelessly set down cups and glasses. Before I could stop myself I glanced at the title of a manuscript placed on the desk—fortunately it was no title of mine, nor one I would be likely to appropriate:
Scourge of Hell
.

Though there was something teasingly familiar about the title, which slipped my mind for the moment.

I remembered that one of the desk drawers contained some intriguing personal material of Haider’s. By flashlight I investigated notes, outlines, isolated manuscript pages, newspaper clippings, family photographs . . . Again, I was conscious of something, or someone, in the room, and when I turned quickly with the flashlight, a pair of gold-glaring eyes were illuminated.

A hoarse cry erupted—
Yyyoww
.

“Satan! Damn you.”

Fortunately the cat’s cry wasn’t loud but rather insinuating, intimate. Where a dog would have barked ferociously to wake his mistress, and to frighten away an intruder, the sleek black cat was not greatly concerned, only rather intrigued by what I, his newfound friend, was doing.

“Would you like to come home with me? Eh, Satan? You are a beauty. Poe would have loved
you
.”

(It is not like me to talk to animals. In fact, I think that people who talk to animals are silly. But here, somehow, in the excitement and tension of the moment, I found myself speaking, in a barely audible voice, to Haider’s cat as if we were co-conspirators.)

When I leaned over to pet Satan’s head, however, Satan shrank away like an ordinary cat, bristling his back, and emitted again, a little louder, the chilling caterwaul—
Yyyow.

“Shhh! You know I won’t hurt
you
.”

I’d been removing manila folders from the drawer to sift through. I was noticing that a number of Haider’s photographs, which dated back to the 1920s, were of quite striking individuals; there was a common Haider prototype, with a hawkish profile, a pronounced forehead, sharp accusatory eyes and sardonic mouth. In several photographs were individuals of indeterminate sex with white hair like Haider’s, that seemed to stand out from their heads as if electrified.

I selected a number of family photographs out of the drawer to drop into my duffel bag. Though I could not have said why, I thought that these personal artifacts could be precious to me; there were sections in
Criss-Cross
that needed amplifying with more engaging and original characters, which these photos might suggest. Also, I took a sheaf of plot outlines. Surely, Haider would never miss these.

Now, you should leave. Do not stay a moment longer.

Indeed, I was ready to retreat. The duffel bag was filled almost to capacity. But now I’d noticed on the ash-strewn floor near the fireplace, beside the ax and the brass andirons, a stack of cardboard files with sliding drawers. These I recognized as files Haider had brought to the courthouse containing what she’d believed to be damning evidence against Andrew J. Rush. I felt a leap of fear, and also of excitement.

No. No time. Leave these.

But I could not leave!—not without investigating these files. And they were too bulky to take with me, along with the spoils I already had. The flashlight I could shove into a pocket, but the other items were too large.

Awkwardly I squatted beside the files. With a tug I managed to slide open one of the drawers.

In the too-bright light from the flashlight Haider’s meticulously hand-lettered white note cards were almost unreadable. Were these passages from my books, set beside passages from hers? Was this the “proof” Judge Carson had tossed out of court?